


winter(green) is coming

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: M/M, i'm not apologizing for any of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: dick is not entirely clear on the nature of slade and wintergreen's relationship





	winter(green) is coming

However vehemently they denied it, Slade and Bruce had a lot in common.

(Which made the handful of very important things they _didn’t_ have in common – like Slade’s borderline fetishistic love of the firearms Bruce hated, and Bruce’s being more-or-less Dick’s father and mentor while Slade was more-or-less Dick’s needy cock holster and probable eventual husband – all the more noticeable and Dick’s weird little life all the more troubling to himself and others.)

Dick had made a game out of noting behavioural parallels. For example: they were both hypocritical health freaks, with the gall to lecture Dick about the nutritional benefits of their preferred brand of tea while leaking from unnoticed bullet holes, and who would urge him to remember the importance of a solid eight hours of sleep while standing on legs made of jelly and gazing at him though a haze of bloodshot exhaustion and self-prescribed Adderall.

They both _sucked_ , basically.

And they both had a moustache guy, without whom their bad habits would have sent them into the ground years ago. Bruce’s moustache guy was Alfred (and, god help him, probably Dick in about thirty years). Slade’s moustache guy was Wintergreen.

So Dick had got it into his head that Wintergreen was basically a mirror universe Alfred. Alfred but with murder. A few more skeletons in the closet and corpses in lye, but still the same quiet, reliable presence, always waiting nearby with a cup of hot chocolate and a wise word. When Dick tried to imagine Wintergreen’s role in Slade’s life, he pictured him stitching up the uniform, dusting Slade’s grotesque collection of animal heads while humming a classical tune, and giving Slade sage advice on how to better communicate with his loved ones (advice that Slade ignored because he really was an _awful_ lot like Bruce).

All of which was to say that when Dick arrived at Slade’s Spanish villa for a weekend of sparring, violent hate sex followed by sappy apology sex, he had certain expectations of what he’d find behind those gold-handled check-out-how-fucking-rich-I-am doors.

Not this. He could safely say he hadn’t expected this.

“Oh, Slade!” Wintergreen cried when they noticed him standing there. “It’s been years since you got me a stripper for my birthday, darling.”

“Aah, fuck,” Slade muttered, and dissolved behind the couch.

“Wait, I’m wrong. Not a stripper. By Jove, it’s that Titan boy. Grayson. Mister Grayson! How good to see you, dear fellow. Have some cake.”

Unable to process the view all at once, Dick switched on the part of his brain he used when surveying the aftermath of a grisly homicide. One thing at a time. Gather the evidence piece by piece.

There was weed. A lot of weed. Three unopened bags on the table, one bag spilled all over the carpet, one speared on the left antler of a taxidermy moose. There were also playing cards scattered hither and yon, suggestive of a poker game interrupted by an earthquake. Or an orgy, yes, that was probably more accurate, because those lacy stockings Wintergreen had on were exactly the same lurid shade of hot pink as the three-tiered birthday cake resting on top of a bronze statue of Achilles.

“Breathe, Grayson,” Wintergreen advised, scratching his hairy thigh.

A chunk of the cake was missing, as though ripped out by someone with hands the size of a gorilla. Being the Alfred-in-waiting for the world’s great detective, Dick connected the dots and stepped around the couch. Slade lay on the carpet, the lump of slightly squashed cake resting on his chest, a wine glass in his icing-stained fingers. His stockings were black.

“You said you’d be here at three,” Slade growl-slurred.

There were crumbs in his beard.

“It’s five minutes to three,” Dick informed him, setting down his bag.

Scowling, Slade reached up and slapped Wintergreen’s ass. “Billy. Time?”

“No, he’s right,” said Wintergreen, with a sigh. “Bugger. Haven’t even opened my presents yet.”

“You will open your presents!” Slade barked, then sat up, scooping up the cake just before it landed on his crotch. “Dick, give Billy the present you got him.”

Dick glanced at the mountain of beautifully wrapped boxes, most sporting blue and orange ribbons, stacked underneath a stuffed buffalo. “Okay. Which one is from me?”

“The one shaped like a suitcase full of luxury handcrafted anal beads.”

“Awesome. Can I at least have some weed before I go digging through your tower of blood money-funded hedonism?”

“Naturally,” said Billy, tossing a bag his way. Dick decided he liked Billy.

Slade held up a hand. “Wait. One condition.”

Following his gaze, Dick finally noticed the navy blue stockings resting on the other end of the couch.

“Better be damn good weed,” he muttered, already taking his pants off while Slade and Wintergreen grinned and descended on him like crocodiles.


End file.
